Saga of the Popularity Thief One  Crystal
by Riquez Oro
Summary: Based on the book "Extras" By Mr. Scott Westerfeld - A typical night in the life of our Popularity Thief. A quick, profitable foray into a museum, a gunfight, vodka martini, showgirls, a vocal solo, a mysterious, treacherous person, and a rooftop escape.


The Saga of the Popularity Thief

Crystal

A story by: Riquez Oro

Based on the book "Extras" By Mr. Scott Westerfeld

Chapter One - Five Crystal Avenue

Five Crystal Avenue... Otherwise known as the Museum. Artifacts from the old days, discoveries worth their weight in gold. Because, well, many are made of gold. And not the retextured protocarbons that the Hole In The Wall produces, but the real, rare, valuable metal, shaped by the hands and machines of the rusties into all manner of desirable trinkets. Valuable Objects desired by the oldest of the old pretties, who would buy it with the only thing they could really pay... Popularity. Advertising.

I stole around the corner of seven crystal avenue, a large, fashionable restauraunt with city views. Covered in fake gold paint, meant to make it look mysterious, but only succeeded in making it look rather too shiny to look at in the night. It will, however, reduce my image to a silhouette for the video cameras when I make my escape.  
>Walking arrogantly directly across the street, cars swerve to miss me. The drivers swear, and I gaze up, up at the large poster of my quarry affixed to number five.<p>

A collection of coins, dated from 1995, showing the queen at the time. A full set, two and one dollar pieces, as well as smaller change of 25, 10, 5 and 1 cents each.  
>Of course, they are actually worth forty eight hours of advertising on an up and coming fashion tutorial show for aging pretties. Speaking of aging... A security guard approaches. Very old. Not very famous at all. He demands to know what I am doing here. I decide to lie, rather than shoot him, which would be loud and pointless, really.<p>

The gun weighs heavily below my arm. It took several trips to a museum of old rusty illustrations, many photographs, days of input into the network, encrypted of course,  
>then printing each individual metal, plastic, and rubber part, and assembling it with only the barest of instructions, to make the small gun. That, and borrowing tons of fireworks from friends and experimenting to find the best force element for the ammunition. But, I had the gun now, and it was indeed useful for my "Job."<p>

The plan tonight is simple. Slip into the museum, disable the alarms, grab the set of six coins from their display box, and retreat across the street for an immidiate handoff to my aged client. Of course, the guard was a hitch, but the museum is barely guarded except during visiting hours. Why would those who have everything attempt to steal, after all? Their system of equal opportunity has thwarted itself, really, as certain families help each other, and shun outsiders. Like the royals way back when.

Political debate with myself can occur later. The alarm box is in the guard station, and to open it will take a tricky bit of maneuvering. The front desk is empty. Of course. These guards aren't paid enough. I leap over the counter, slipping on crisp white silk gloves. An emerald mask adorns my face. I look, in fact, like an heir from a fancy cocktail party. The guard is confused by my presence. The museum isn't closed perce, but few venture in while the many guides are off duty, in the middle of the night.

I record his conversation with me. The usual questions. Who I am, what I am doing. I dodge them easily, acting the arrogant sod I am dressed as. My computer is rearranging his words as we speak, and a tone in my ear tells me it's time to disable the guard. I do so, silently, with a quick strike to the side of his neck. Hardly lethal, but effective for my purposes. I open the panel with a small pry bar I pull from my trouser leg. After that, pulling apart the wires is easy. The panel lights up, but is silent.

A voice comes on. The security company, asking what is wrong. The guards rearranged voice plays from a sound chip I tape to the panel. Two dozen phrases with some frequency modulation, it'll take a few minutes for the poor underpaid fellow on the other end to figure out he's talking to a recording. By then I should be across the street holding a Vodka martini. I run out of the room, over the desk, and up two flights of stairs. The coins are in front of me, in a glass case. The pry bar shatters it. No sirens, thank god.

I place the coins in my breast pocket. I turn towards the stairs, and two guards stand there. The fools haven't even unholstered their weapons. My own gun is out in a second. Both fall. I run past. Oddly enough, one hasn't been hit and is pretending to be dead. Hmmm. Not many are smart enough to do that. The other has a small leg wound,  
>but he could shoot. But he doesn't. Just looks at me as I tread silently down the stairs. Not much point being silent now. A silencer would have made the gun too bulky.<p>

I hasten to the alarm box in the guard room, where I reconnect all the wires, and retrieve my sound chip. Now, across the street. Nobody is outside, not the guard I met,  
>or anyone else. Traffic has thinned considerably. I dash across the road, and into the restaraunt. The doors open automatically, and a server offers me a shot of something fruity.<br>I refuse. Not my kind of drink, really. Besides, I want to head upstairs to hand off these troublesome artifacts. I usually don't have to shoot anyone on my missions. 


End file.
